


Filthy Sexy Money

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Intrigue, It's all in good fun, Older Man/Younger Woman, Petyr's a manipulative son of a bitch, Politics, Sansa's a bit bratty, Sexy Times, Sugar Daddy Romp, god i love him so much, plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: “Bah!” Sansa had been fiddling with her hair for the prior half hour before she left her apartment, and checking it in the rearview mirror of the taxi lumbering through midtown, it still seemed an unruly mess. Her fingers continued to pick at and arrange the auburn strands as she wondered how she ever let Loras talk her into this. A blind date for god’s sake! What was this, theeighties? She didn’t even have the guy’s name; just instructions to look for a man with a white rose and a silver bird pinned to his lapel. It felt like something she’d see in a bad Lifetime movie.





	1. The Blind Date

“Bah!” Sansa had been fiddling with her hair for the prior half hour before she left her apartment, and checking it in the rearview mirror of the taxi lumbering through midtown, it still seemed an unruly mess. Her fingers continued to pick at and arrange the auburn strands as she wondered how she ever let Loras talk her into this. A blind date for god’s sake! What was this, the _eighties_? She didn’t even have the guy’s name; just instructions to look for a man with a white rose and a silver bird pinned to his lapel. It felt like something she’d see in a bad Lifetime movie. 

It wasn’t that Sansa was necessarily opposed to dating someone she’d never met, but at least with a name she could have googled the guy or run a preliminary background check to make sure he wasn’t some creeper trying to get his hands on her trust fund. Unfortunately, a very real concern with a name as prominent as Stark. 

Both her parents came from old money. Her mother’s family, the Tullys, were railroad magnets going back almost two hundred years, and the Starks had governed New York in one way or another for at least as long. Her own parents marriage was arranged to consolidate wealth and power, and somehow in that mix they found a measure of love. They were the lucky ones. 

Sansa’s future marriage was supposed to happen the same way. Harrold Hardyng, heir to Arryn Oil, was her intended. It was a betrothal presumed from birth, but Harry had other ideas. He joined the army in an act of rebellion against his family the day he turned eighteen. A year later he was dead from friendly fire, and Sansa found herself free and unencumbered for the first time ever. She tried to mourn for him, but she’d never really known the boy she was promised to marry, and soon enough all her friends (who’d been somewhat aghast at the arrangement in this day and age) began to take her out, introduce her to boys and girls and dancing and alcohol, and a few light recreational drugs. She was young, beautiful, rich, and single. What was the harm? That was her view until the NY Post published photos of her at Margaery’s 25th Birthday Bash. 

_"Stark Heiress Blitzed at the Mockingbird: Details of her wild night inside!”_

The photo accompanying the headline was anything but flattering. The fuchsia sequined flapper dress she was wearing as part of the twenties theme was riding up her leg as she sat astride the back of a sofa on which she was laughing, revealing the tops of her black sheer stockings and the barely there scrap of fabric that hid her womanhood from the paparazzo’s view(much to their chagrin, she was sure). She’d only done a dab of ecstasy, but the effect kept her laughing to the point of tears, and as a result the mascara and heavy eyeliner she wore had smudged and run down her face. She looked a hot fucking mess. 

The dressing down she’d gotten from Mummy and Daddy upon seeing the negative press made her feel like an eight year old who been caught in the cookie jar. They gave her an ultimatum: shape up, settle down, or forfeit her trust fund. The fucking nerve! Not even Robb was denied his money after he knocked up his high school girlfriend, nor Arya when she ran away for a whole goddamn year! It wasn’t fair! She was just out having fun with her friends and it was being completely blown out of proportion! All the hullabaloo because it was a threat to Daddy’s re-election chances. What utter horseshit. 

The yellow cab (an affectation she’d embraced to avoid the more insistent [read: stalkerish] photographers) slowed to a stop in front of Le Bernardin. Sansa smoothed out the lines of the little black Gucci dress she wore, and plumped up her cleavage so that her breasts peaked alluringly through the gauzy material that covered her chest. The outfit was perhaps on the conservative side for her tastes, but it still had a seamlessly erotic appeal in the way it fit her frame, giving tantalizing glimpses here and there at what lie beneath. She passed a fifty to the driver from her vintage pearl studded clutch, and stepped out beneath the glass topped awning that led to the restaurant. Her date didn’t appear to be waiting outside, so she made her way through the revolving door, careful not to let her shiny Louboutins get scuffed. 

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim dinner lighting. The way the backdrop on the walls shimmered like cascading waters. It screamed of elegance and privilege, and while it was not an unusual occurrence for her to find herself in such environs, it was a far cry from the types of establishments she and her friends frequented. 

“Mademoiselle Stark?” 

Loose red tendrils swayed as Sansa turned her head to see the maitre’d. “Yes?” 

“Your gentleman friend requested that I inform you he is awaiting you in the bar. Shall I escort you?” 

So the mystery man knows who I am. _Interesting_. “Please,” she said with a congenial smile. 

With a nod, the odd little man sauntered deeper into the restaurant, and Sansa followed on his heels. He stopped short at the entrance to the bar, and gestured with a wave of his hand for her to enter. Tentatively, she stepped forward, eyes scanning for the signs of her date until they landed on a dark haired man at a corner table. The rose blended into the white of the table cloth, but the silver of his pin glinted sharply against the dark lines of his suit. It wasn’t until she was directly before him, as she witnessed the unabashed way his lascivious gaze absorbed her every curve, that she realized she knew him. He stood to greet her, his smug confident smirk begging to be smacked off his face, yet her curiosity won out. 

“Mr. Baelish.” 

“Miss Stark.” He pulled out her chair, and she sat down with a graceful nonchalance, setting her clutch to the side. 

Mr. Baelish took his seat, but neither of them said anything for a time, merely studied each other over the tabletop. He was an exceedingly handsome man; a fact that had not been lost on her when she’d met him at the innumerable political functions she’d attended with her father through the years. He’d aged well; like a fine wine as Margaery would have said. The navy of his suit brought out the green in those devilish eyes of his, and the grey at his temples was only just beginning to thread into the rest of his dark hair. He would need a haircut soon, she noted. It was just starting to curl at the edges of his ear. His stare was insouciant as he leaned against the table, the cloth rippling where his arms were braced while he made his own private observations. 

A waitress appeared finally, and cut through the tension requesting their drink orders. 

“Gin and tonic. Two slices of lime.” Sansa indicated with her fingers. 

Looking expectantly to the man at the table, “And for you, sir?” 

“An Old Fashioned.” His gaze never acknowledged the interloper, all its focus trained on Sansa. 

The server ambled off to grab their drinks, and Sansa tried to withhold the snark from her voice, tilting her head as she asked, “So is this a real date or are you just hoping to get intel against my father, Mr. Baelish?” 

One corner of his mouth lifted as he pondered her question a moment. “I don’t see why the two need to be mutually exclusive.” His wicked tongue flicked out to lick his lips which sent a familiar throb between her legs. “And so long as I’m buying, maybe you should call me Petyr.” 

Sansa stifled a laugh. “What I should do is leave. Everyone knows you’re announcing your candidacy against my father next week.” 

“Do they now?” Petyr sank back into the leather of the booth, his arm casually flung over the top as the fingers of his other hand grazed over the point of his beard. “And are you still Daddy’s little cheerleader?” 

Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes at his ribbing. “Daddy and I don’t see eye to eye lately, but that doesn’t mean I want to hurt him.” 

“Nor do I,” he affirmed offhandedly. “But you have to admit, he is a bit old world in his ideas. A bit conservative for the era.” Sansa opened her red tinted lips, then closed them again. He wasn’t _wrong_. How many times had she gotten into arguments with Daddy over dinner about feminism and the wage gap, and all manner of things that he still didn’t see as a problem. Petyr took her silence as permission to continue. “Don’t you think it’s time for some new blood?” 

Their drinks were placed before them, and Sansa toyed with the rim on hers, a slender finger gliding around the edge as she studied the clink of the ice. “Hypothetically, say I agree. What does that have to do with me?” 

“I have a business proposition for you.” 

She watched him over the top of her glass. “I’m listening.” 

“You know that Loras works for my campaign, yes?” Yes, yes, she nodded. It was the worst kept secret in their tight knit little clique. “Well he told me the most interesting piece of gossip regarding yourself and your parents. Namely, that if you aren’t married and settled before you turn twenty-five — ” he looked at the date on his watch for emphasis, “So less than six months from now —  they’ll dissolve your trust.” He notched the cherry from his drink in between his lips, his stare daring her to look away as he sucked on the pert, red fruit. He released it with an audible pop, and the place between Sansa’s legs clenched involuntarily. Her imagination running wild with the thought of what those sumptuous lips could do on her own, not dissimilar anatomy. Heat diffused her cheeks at the lurid suggestion. 

A steadying breath filled her lungs. “And what? You want to help me keep my trust?” 

He purred. “I want us to help each other, Sansa.” 

There was still a missing piece to this equation. “And what do you want?” 

His predatory gleam tickled down her frame, feeding the smoldering fire down low until it was an inferno. “I need the Stark name. I need a _wife_.” 

The air was knocked from her lungs as she realized just what he was asking. _Proposing_. “You want to marry me? Is this a joke? Did Loras set you up to do this?” The dots in her head were all misaligned and non-connected, and who just asks someone to marry them out of the blue?! 

It seems that Petyr anticipated this reaction, reaching inside his jacket to produce a black jewelry box. He shoved the votive on the table aside, setting the box between them with a soft thud. It was Harry Winston. Sansa would have recognized the logo from a mile off. Oh god. Her eyes gaped, lips parted as she held her breath. 

“I’m completely serious, Sansa, my dear.” Dripping with confidence, he flipped the lid open, and she saw the most gloriously flawless, cushion cut sapphire (three carats at least!) absolutely beset by diamonds around the edges. It was the engagement ring of her dreams, and how on earth did he have such exquisite taste? 

When no response was forthwith, he picked up her left hand from where it rested against ivory cloth. Any and all words were stuck in her throat as he dislodge the ring from its seat, and slid it onto the fourth digit. He kissed her knuckles, and a familiar damp drenched her the silk of her knickers. “Say yes, Sansa.” 

Blue eyes finally tore free from the massive rock on her hand to meet his gaze. Those eyes burned into her like nothing she’d experienced before. Her lips forming the word absent all reason. “Yes.” 

A wide, toothy smile overtook his face. “Clever girl.” He leaned in closer, his voice a whispering rasp. “Now kiss me, and smile big for the cameras.” 

Sansa heard the hiss of the bulbs, saw their flashes from behind her closed lids as her lips melded gently with his. She could feel the smile Petyr wore even as he slipped his tongue in to meet her own. Oh, this was reckless, but it felt so deliciously thrilling. Mummy and Daddy are going to positively freak when they see this headline. 

_Good_. 


	2. Bargaining

Oh, this was heaven! With her red hair piled high, Sansa sank deeper into the clawfoot tub, a tiny purr of delight escaping her throat as she closed her eyes to steamy tendrils rising from scorching water’s surface. This was terrible for her skin. She’ll be all bright pink mottled and pruned by the time she emerges, and she’ll doubtless have to go extra heavy on her moisturizer, but oh! The luxury was worth it. The heat relaxed all her aching muscles, and the citrus fragrance from the bath bomb she’d chosen helped to eradicate all niggling doubts about the agreement she’d made last night.

 _Mrs. Petyr Baelish_. 

Mrs. _Sansa_ Baelish.

A discordant giggle was birthed from her lungs. It seemed almost absurd that she went from single to engaged in the course of an hour — and to her father’s political rival to boot! After the cameras swelled Le Bernardin, and used up their last roll of film, Mr. Baelish — Petyr, she supposed she really ought to get used to calling him that — escorted her back home with a promise to reconnect soon and hammer out the fine details of their arrangement. She sucked on her bottom lip. The taste of mint from his wicked tongue still lingered. 

It was Sunday morning, and the whole fiasco happened early enough the previous evening that it should have made the tabloids. A part of her mused that she should be somewhat incensed at his presumption that she would accept his proposal, but truly, she was only impressed at his uncanny ability to read the situation. It is no small miracle to rise as fast and as high in New York politics as he’s managed without the right name. Like it or not, the system was entrenched in nepotism, and it takes real talent to get as far as he has without one. And as of this morning, he has even that. She imagined the headline:

_”Sansa Stark Rumored to Marry Political Up and Comer, Petyr Baelish: See the photos of their romantic rendezvous inside!”_

Right about now, their pictures were likely running the gamut — from her new personal nemesis, the NY Post, all the way to the headlines of CNN’s front page and beyond. She’d turned off her phone in anticipation of her parents’ displeasure last night, and was content to leave it off until the last vestige of heat drained from the porcelain at her back. Sansa was unequivocally positive that whatever ludicrous notion her parents had entertained for her future, she had just upended it, and she was absolutely _gleeful_ at having attained the upper hand. Serves them right for trying to disinherit her!

The stunning ring that Petyr had gifted her for her cooperation in their partnership adorned her hand once more. She’d slipped it on again as soon as she awoke this morning. Now, it dangled over the rim of the tub, and she felt the satisfying weight of it. Opening her eyes, she lifted her palm to the sky to examine the covetous jewel against the backdrop of lavender that accented her bathroom. He really had gone above and beyond to win her favor. Even at this distance, the clarity and color of the stone were unequalled to anything she’d seen before. It twinkled and winked back at her flirtatiously as she wiggled her digits, and she couldn’t suppress a naughty smirk. A beautiful piece like this deserved a decidedly _improper_ thanks. 

As Sansa was determining just how licententious her gratitude should be, there came a loud thudding at her door which caused to her jump in surprise, water sloshing over the rim of the bath, saturating the mat. The door man, Jory, was well poised to know who to let up to her floor, and given the urgency behind every hit, Sansa knew exactly whom to expect on the other end of this barrage. She sighed in annoyance. He has a key, he can let himself in. The goodie goodie.

_Slam!_

“Sansa!” A clacking of rushed footsteps echoed down the corridor, piercing the silence of her sanctuary. “Sansa! I know you’re here. Where the fuck are you?”

Was it possible for her retinas to detach from rolling her eyes too hard? “In here,” she called out, flipping over so she perched against the cooling porcelain, chin resting against her wrists, ever so thankful that the bath bomb from earlier had rendered the water an opaque teal.

Robb busted through the door, nonplussed at his sister's state of undress. “What the hell is this?” he asked, throwing down one of the local gossip rags. 

Sighing, Sansa reached out to adjust it, her brother's careless toss having disrupted the papers into a splayed fan of illegibility. Of course, she knew exactly to what he was referring, but played up the pretense of ignorance, curious to see which picture made the front page. A giddy squeal erupted as the image was revealed. It was pulled in for closer examination, her feet kicking in riotous joy. 

Oh! They looked so good together. Like Bogie and Bacall — handsome and beautiful and dressed to the nines. This particular paper had chosen to advertise with their kiss; her borderline obscene engagement ring prominently displayed where her hand cupped his cheek. The smiles they each held were visible even as their lips met. Sansa hadn't even been aware she was smiling at the time, but here was indisputable evidence. 

“Jesus, Sansa. This isn't a time to celebrate! You know Dad was scheduled to appear on the morning shows today.” Actually, she didn't. Familial communication had broken down considerably since her indiscretion at the Mockingbird, but of course Mummy and Daddy would keep that quiet from Robb, the Golden Child. She fought not to grit her teeth at his obliviousness. ”He was completely sideswiped by this! What the fuck are you thinking?”

Sansa met his derision with a scowl. “What am I thinking? I'm _thinking_ that you need to step out of my bathroom and adjust your attitude while I get dressed.”

“If you think that I am- Ahhhh!” Robb spun out of the room, red-faced, eyes covered, as Sansa stood, a smug curl to her lip as the water sluiced down her frame. _Chicken_. 

There was nothing more annoying than her parents sending Robb to do their dirty work. Absentee parenting at its finest, except now they couldn’t rely on the au pair to do their scolding for them. The only reason they’d had their own blowout three months past was because she happened to be scheduled to have breakfast with them the day the headlines blew up.

Chances are they gave Robb a list of demands to pass along — as though anything could top the sting of losing out on fifty plus million dollars. She earned that damn money. She didn't naysay when they told her she was loosely betrothed to Harrold Hardyng, and forbid her to date in prep school. Nor did she object when Catelyn insisted on turning her into a little mini-me by sending her off to attend her alma mater(fucking Vassar, ugh whyyyy) instead of Columbia as Sansa had pleaded. Despite all this, she kept her grades up, kept her head down, and graduated magna cum laude in a goddamn field she didn't even _enjoy_ (fucking poli sci, as though she hadn't been raised in the thick of government; the coursework may as well have been taught by ethicists and philosophers for all the unrealistic views they held). After playing nice through all that, they’re going to scold her for sowing a few wild oats before settling into adulthood? _I don’t think so._

Sansa fumed, snapping the towel off the rod as she stepped out of the tub; her face a mask of steely determination. Haphazardly, she wicked the moisture from her skin — silently seething — and grabbed her plush terry cloth robe, cinching it tight around her waist before stepping out to confront her holier-than-thou brother. She glided past him, nose in the air, intent on ducking into the kitchen for a glass of lemon water.

Robb leaned against the archway, arms crossed as he watched her pour and drink it down. “You’re playing dirty, sis. Mom and Dad are not impressed.”

She tossed her head back emitting a throaty scoff. “Do you think I care what the great Ned and Catelyn Stark think? I’m doing what they asked. Settling down. Getting married to a respectable man,” she explained calmly over her shoulder, as she passed by him once again.

“Fine, then,” he followed, “I’m not impressed.”

Low blow, brother. It might have stung had they actually grown up together. “Then tell me, Robb.” She turned from her view that extended over the Hudson, plonked down onto the nearby loveseat, one leg folded beneath her. “What would you do in my shoes? I’d love to know.”

Running his fingers through his wavy auburn locks, he paced. “Not marry Petyr fucking Baelish for a start.”

“Well, to be fair, you’re not really his type,” she snarked with an unimpressed sneer.

“Shut the fuck up, Sans. You know what I mean.” He collapsed at the edge of her overwide chaise lounge, hands animated as he argued, “The man’s a fucking boil on the ass of New York, and I can’t even begin to imagine how he convinced you to turn on your own family.”

Her mouth gaped. “Is that what Mummy and Daddums are saying?”

Robb chewed his lip. “Are they wrong?”

“Yes, they’re wrong!” Sansa jumped to her feet, face flushed with anger as she circled the room. “They’re the ones that started all this! Threatening to dissolve my trust!”

“Wait! What?” Robb put on the brakes. “Dissolve your trust. What the hell are you talking about?! They would never…”

“Oh? Did they leave that part out of your little tête-à-tête before they sent you over this morning? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were trying to turn you against me, too.” She wanted to stamped her foot. That is until she saw the bland as shit vase her mother presented her as a housewarming gift when she moved back to the city last year. _Beige. I hate fucking beige._ The awful kitsch shattered over the mantle of her fireplace. There! Take that! Her breath heaved as the silent victory washed over her.

Robb was on his feet now. “Sansa, why the hell did you do that?”

“I’m redecorating!” she barked, blowing a tendril of hair out of her eyes.

“Well, look,” Robb hesitated, retreating a few feet in case she decided to extend her path of destruction. “If it’s just about the money, Mom and Dad said they were open to releasing your trust early-”

“What?!” Dare she hope they’d seen reason!

“-provided,” he emphasized, “you end things with Petyr Baelish before he announces his candidacy, and agree to marry a someone of their choosing.” His voice became softer. “You’ll definitely lose the money if you marry the boil, though.”

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. She fell dramatically to lie on the sofa, feet kicked over the armrest. Of course, Mummy and Daddy would change the rules of the game to suit themselves. _Cheaters_. If she gave in to them on this, they would undoubtedly pick the safest, most tiresome bore of their acquaintance. They were so damn determined to make her some sort of Stepford wife. On the other hand, the amount of money involved was nothing to laugh at. Trying not to let too much hope tinge her voice, she shifted her gaze back to her brother to ask, “And if I don’t marry either of them?” Robb looked at her in helpless silence. Same old, same old then. Money goes poof. Hope for reconciliation snuffed. Kicking her legs, Sansa released an exasperated huff. “I don’t suppose they told you who they had in mind?”

“Willas Tyrell.”

Sansa bolted upright, her face screwed up in disgust. “Willas!” She mock retched before throwing herself back down, eye cast up to the ceiling. Margaery would have told her if she knew of this disaster, right? It must have only just been worked out this morning. She eyed the door to her bedroom, wondering if there would be a frantic message on her phone once she powered it back on.

Brows furrowed, Robb asked, “What’s the problem? I thought you liked the Tyrells.”

Did she really have to explain this? God, her family was so clueless sometimes. “Margaery is a sweetheart. Love her. Loras, a complete doll. Could shop with him for hours. But Willas? Jesus, save me from the tedium. He’s handsome enough, but has all the wit of a wet rag. How the hell those three emerged from the same gene pool, I will never understand.”

“Well, Mom said she’d sweeten the deal,” Robb went on. “They won’t release the trust until after you’re married,” Trust. What a misnomer under the circumstances. Ha! “but she’ll give you an early wedding gift of a million dollars if you agree to the arrangement with Willas.”

Oh really? Her lips curled smugly as she swung her feet down to the floor to perch at the sofa’s edge. Staring Robb down with a rebellious gleam in her eye, “They’re desperate for me not to go through with this, aren’t they?”

Robb let out an defeated sigh. “The optics of you marrying Dad’s opponent is bad, Sans. You have them over a barrel,” he begrudgingly admitted.

 _Good. Let them squirm for awhile_ , she thought maliciously. She was more tempted now than ever before to go against their wishes. Or maybe, just maybe, argue her way back to singledom and keep her inheritance in the process.

Before that thought was fully fleshed out, however, a knock came at the door. The interruption lifted the heavy veil of tension off Robb’s shoulders, and he broke away from his sister’s gaze to stare out along the city’s vista. An overly servile voice called through, “Miss Stark, you have a delivery.”

Triumphant at perhaps besting her parents, Sansa bounced out of her seat. She hadn’t been expecting any packages, and she could only think of one person who might have sent her something. She was ecstatic to see what it might be.

She opened the door with a dazzling smile. “Morning, Jory,” she greeted sweetly as she took a measure of the items in his hands: two dozen white roses and a large black box tied with cream ribbon. She relieved him of the roses. “Can you put the box on the dining table for me please?”

“Of course, ma’am.” 

Sansa passed the man a twenty on his way out. Always be kind to the staff. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. They were always more willing to help in a pickle if they knew they’d be rewarded.

It was now Robb’s turn to roll his eyes. “Let me guess. It’s from Petyr Baelish?”

Sansa didn’t confirm his suspicions, instead opting to stick her tongue out at him defiantly as deft fingers pried the enclosed message from between the flowers.

_Sweetling,_

_I hope this morning finds you well after the events of last night. ___  
_Unfortunately, I couldn’t deliver this myself. Would you believe I’ve_  
_been absolutely inundated with interview requests today?_  


____

Sansa could just imagine the self-satisfied grin on his face as he wrote that, and didn’t fight off the amusement that spread across her own. 

_Yet, it is imperative that certain traditions not be overlooked._  
_I’m having a garden party for several of my most generous_  
_supporters this Thursday. I thought it would be an ideal_  
_opportunity to announce our engagement, and end the_  
_media speculation._  


_While I’m in no doubt as to the ample state of your wardrobe, I’ve_  
_taken the liberty of acquiring something special for the occasion._  
_Please, do me the honor of wearing it._  


_Yours,_  
_Petyr_  


_P.S. The party doesn’t start until three. I’ll send a car for you at_  
_noon so that we might discuss the terms of our arrangement more_  
_in depth. I think you'll be very pleased with what I bring to the table. _  


Biting her lip in anticipation, Sansa set the note aside to pluck the ribbon loose, revealing the contents of the his gift. Inside was the most gorgeous Elie Saab dress she had ever seen. Her heart raced as she lifted it free of the tissue to hold it up to her frame. This must have cost him a fortune!

“Earth to Sansa.” _Snap, snap._ Fingers waved in front of her face. Had Robb been talking? She looked up to see her brother staring at her with a confounded expression.

Arching her brow, “Hmm?”

Impatiently, he said, “I asked, what should I tell Mother?”

Sansa hugged the dress against her chest, swayed the material back and forth with one hand, mesmerized by the smooth waves of floral chiffon that billowed around her. It was glorious! She could get quite used being spoiled so. Perhaps she should hear out her new betrothed before relenting to her parents’ demands.

Noncommittally, she demurred, “Tell her that I’ll think on it.”


	3. A Persuasive Man

When Sansa arrived at the location in Southampton — garment and makeup bags in hand because she’d be damned if she was going to travel two hours to the Hamptons and look a wrinkled mess — she was immediately shown into a guest suite in the west wing of the palatial estate. The property itself was nothing to balk over (ocean front views never are) but it was a shame that the manse that set upon it looked like an amateaur architect vomited up all his failed compositions. The design was some strange amalgamation of Victorian meets Contemporary, which perhaps could have been forgiven, except that the interior consisted of rusticly exposed beams, with Louis Quinze style furniture, and an unfortunate host of dead animals on the walls. The whole thing screamed nouveau riche trying to buy elegance, and failing abysmally. Thankfully, her concerns over Petyr’s glaring lack of taste were put to rest quickly once she learned this house was on loan. One Gerold Grafton had been quick to assert himself as the monstrosity’s ill-fated owner upon their introduction. Thank heaven for little miracles.

Petyr had not been readily available to greet her — handling a quick emergency said Mr. Grafton. He’d meet her in the library as soon as she was presentable; a maid would be on hand to show her the way, and help her with anything she needed. Sansa could tell he was nervous by the way he rambled on topics of inconsequence as they waited for said maid to finish up her current occupation, and show her deeper into the mansion. How on Earth had Petyr come to be associated with such a fool? In the end, she was thankful for the man’s hospitality. The maid, Senna, had been of much help, steaming out a few creases the stunning Elie Saab had suffered in transit, and sweeping her auburn hair up into a messy, but elegant, bun. A quick touch up to her lipstick and eye makeup, and Sansa’s look was complete — a modern day Jackie-O.

The event was supposed to begin in fifteen minutes, but fashionably late wasn’t so much an excuse as a rule in the Hamptons. The press will probably trickle in on time, but very few of the actual guests would be arriving until at least half past. In the interim, Sansa waited, watching the chaos from her perch in the second floor library. The caterers were getting their spread set up, their over-large grill smoking as plates of meat and vegetables were paraded out in preparation. The wait staff flitted between hastily thrown up tables and chairs, smoothing out blue and white linens, positioning flower arrangements and ensuring each name placard was correctly placed. Petyr was nowhere in sight. Nor was Loras whom she’d half expected to see; the one familiar face she hoped to recognize in a sea of her father’s opposition. This event would definitely be a trial by fire without his support. Assuming she went through with it. That ball was still up in the air.

When the ten minute mark came and went, and Petyr still hadn’t appeared, Sansa decided to help herself to the small, corner bar. The selection wasn’t spectacular, but she’d managed to find a decent bourbon among the offerings and poured herself a generous dram to nurse while she watched the bees buzzing down below. She leaned into the window frame, arms crossed, and savored the burn on her tongue.

A barely there click registered in her ears, and Sansa’s head snapped in its direction to see Petyr staring back, fully appreciating the image that Sansa presented. He looked sharp, himself, in a light gray suit; the pale pink shirt beneath had its top two buttons undone, revealing the teeniest bit of chest hair. It gave him an air of approachability that his normal business attire lacked, and matched well with the light and airy nature of her own garb. 

Upon seeing the drink in Sansa’s hand, Petyr drawled, “Please, have a drink.”

No compliments? She tried not to let the affront ruffle her feathers, instead raising her glass to him with a studied tip of her head. “Don’t mind if I do.” She strolled in his direction as he made a path towards the bar, stopping to rest against a nearby desk. “You know it’s bad etiquette to keep a lady waiting.”

“My apologies, dear.” The same bourbon she’d sampled was tipped into another glass. It clinked as it inadvertently made contact with the tumbler. “There was a slight hiccup back in town. Loras is handling it though.” He held the decanter aloft, silently asking if she wanted a refill. 

Sansa demurred even as her stomach sank. “Oh? Does that mean he won’t be at the party today?”

“Unfortunately not.” He capped the crystal — the stopper making a full bodied ring as it sank into its seat — and picked up his drink before stepping in front of her. The heady scent of his cologne surrounded her, burned deep in her lungs with every breath, making her momentarily dizzy. Heavily, her lids fell shut, and though she could not see him, she felt the atmosphere stirring around her as he inched closer. Felt as one of his hands skimmed along her jaw, the barest hint of heat against her skin sending an insuppressible tremor skittering through her. “Are you very disappointed?”

Taking a shaky breath, Sansa shrugged, opened her eyes to meet his unwavering gaze, unwilling to reveal her own apprehension. “It would have been nice to have a friendly face about.” She gulped down the rest of her drink, taking a moment to enjoy the pooling warmth in her tummy as she grasped for her courage. “That said, I think we’d better get down to brass tacks.” The glass made a loud thwack as she set atop the mahogany that dug deliciously into her ass. “I may not be able to marry you after all.”

His eyebrows lifted, but the surprise displayed on his face lacked conviction and never met his eyes. “Indeed? A little late to be telling me now, don’t you think?” He retreated, settling himself into a brocade covered armchair a few feet away, legs crossed as he swirled the contents of his glass before taking a generous sip. “Let me guess. Mommy and Daddy Stark weren’t thrilled with our splash into the society pages.”

“That’s an understatement.” A small scoff left her lips as she jumped to finally sit on the desk, hands splayed behind her, the ribbons that secured her heels in place swaying with the childlike dangling of her legs. “They’re willing to let me keep my inheritance — release it early even — if I marry someone else.”

Petyr’s head cocked to the side. “How much money are we talking?” 

“A bit over fifty-two million on the last statement I saw.”

Petyr whistled, threw back the rest of his drink and set the tumbler aside. “That is quite the sum. One, I’m unfortunately unable to match.” Sansa’s shoulders slumped, and it did not go unnoticed. “Not that I couldn’t mind you. I’m just not in a habit of paying for a wife. And even were I inclined to do so, I’m not sure that’s what you really want.”

“No?”

He responded with a slow shake of his head.

“And what do you think I want, Mr. Baelish?”

“Petyr,” he prompted her.

“Petyr.” The familiarity still felt strange on her tongue.

A pack of cigarettes was pulled from inside his jacket. Petyr packed them against his palm deliberately, his brows furrowed. Lighting one, he took a deep drag, smoke trailing from his lips as he pointed out, “I think you enjoy money. I think you enjoy the illusion of freedom it gives you. But I think you also understand that it’s a leash — one that your parents have been using against you your entire life.” 

He gestured to her, cigarette lodged between nimble fingers. “I’ve done my research on you, Sansa. You’re smart. Capable. More so that your parents acknowledge, but you cling to this idea of trying to please them. You never stepped one foot out of line growing up. Went to the college they chose for you. Work a meaningless job that they arranged. Live in an apartment they bought with an allowance that they provide. You’re chomping at the bit for some independence. Something that Mommy and Daddy Stark will never grant you. I bet they already have a future husband in mind for you, don’t they?” 

Oh, I see now. “Loras told you.” Damn him. “The emergency he’s dealing with? I’m guessing it pertains to me.”

A smile split his face. “There’s those smarts I was talking about.” He took another long inhale, relaxing deeper into his seat, clearly quite pleased with himself. “Olenna is quite vexed I managed to steal you out from under her nose. She’s been in cahoots with your parents, trying to arrange a betrothal between you and Willas for the past few months. Luckily for me, Loras is a terrible gossip once you get a few glasses of chardonnay in him. He was exceedingly outraged that Olenna and Margaery had kept him out of the loop.”

Her mind screamed in protest. “No. _No_. Margaery would have told me if she’d known.” She’s my best friend!

“Are you certain of that?” He stood, tamped out the half burnt cigarette in his empty glass before pinning Sansa between himself and the desk she sat upon. His eyes. God, his eyes were devouring her, and her mouth went dry just from his proximity. Lord help her if he touches her again. “Tell me, dear. How did Margaery react to news of our rumored engagement?”

Struggling through the haze, Sansa’s mind raced for some excuse, any excuse that could explain Margaery’s silence. The reports of their outing last Saturday, their pictures, it had all made the rounds. She and Marge didn’t talk everyday, but never had communication dropped between them so drastically as it had this last week. Not a peep. Not a simple check-in or an invite to share lunch. Nothing. The excuse that passed her lips was feeble at best. “She’s been very busy, what with her charity to run. We haven’t touched base since the story broke.”

“Hmm.” His tone was a rich purr. She felt it rumble down her neck all the way to her toes, making her insides clinch. “I’m sure her reticence to reach out has nothing to do with the fact she’s been vying to fill the seat of Mrs. Baelish for the last year.” Sansa’s mouth gaped like a fish, and Petyr clicked her mouth shut with the tip of his index. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not,” she blurted. “Okay, maybe I am. It’s just- Marge never said anything.”

“And why would she?” Petyr asked. “You’re the daughter of the governor. A governor representing the opposition party, I should add.”

“But it doesn’t make sense! I mean,” she leaned closer, her hand adjusting the silver bird on his lapel as his found her waist. “If she wanted to marry you, then fine. I get that. You both work within the same party. But why would she and Olenna want me to marry Willas. What purpose does it serve?”

“If I had to guess, Margaery wanted to eliminate the competition (friend though you may be) and Olenna saw a chance to consolidate power. The old broad is pushing Willas to get into politics (though I doubt your parents are aware of that), and Margaery wants to marry an established politician to push her own agenda. Unfortunately, the pickings are slim for her in that respect. Her only prospects came down to me or one of the Lannisters. Tywin is set to retire this year, Jaime’s balls are owned by Cersei, and Joffrey couldn’t successfully debate a rock. I was the obvious choice.”

Well when he put it like that, she supposed it was obvious. “Why marry me though? Why not Margaery? A Tyrell is almost as good as a Stark.”

“I entertained the idea for awhile,” he admitted. The comment should have stung, the knowledge that she wasn’t his first choice. But his hand at her waist was hot, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the silky material of her dress, tickling over her ribs and edging dangerously close to her breast. It was becoming more and more difficult to breath. “But I didn’t want _her_.” The way he said it, the certainty, the desire, sent a shiver straight to her core. One step forward, and his thigh insinuated itself between her knees. And with the softest of presses, her legs opened for him. Looking up at his face, they way he loomed above her, she could truly envision the powerful man that everyone said he was. “I wanted you.” The hand at her waist lifted, pushed away a curl that had fallen over her brow. He placed a dry peck to the newly exposed area before pulling back to take in her expression. And why did that disappoint her so? “Your parents were content to let that lovely mind of yours moulder in the background, sell you off and get you out of the way because they were afraid of what you could become. But I’m not. I want a partner. Margaery could never set aside her own ego long enough to conceive of such a thing.

“You can, of course, marry the boring rich boy with nothing to offer you except a lifetime of neglect and a herd of squalling children to obtain your oh so precious money.” He paused, a look of pity, or maybe it was sadness, saturating his features. “But you’ll never be free. Cat and Ned will own you for the rest of your life, and you know it. If it’s not this trust of yours, they’ll hold something else over you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you agreed to marry me. That’s why you’re still going to marry me.”

He tipped her chin up, leaned in, but before his lips made contact with her own she pulled back a fraction, his hand falling away. “You’re so damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

He met her derision with a smirk, and placed a kiss to the end of her nose. “Why else would you be wearing the dress that I bought you? If you were really planning to walk out on me, on our arrangement, you would have sent it back. Ring, too,” he said.

He was right, of course. The idea of giving into Mummy and Daddy, and living according to their whims held little appeal, but she couldn’t help but egg Petyr on. She ran a finger over the fine ridge of his ear, and whispered against his cheek in her most sultry voice, “I could still take it off.”

A groan filled her ears. It was delicious, and she savored it like the tender morsel it was. The fact that she managed to extract it from such a controlled man as Petyr Baelish only made the tiny victory more sweet. Both his hands clutched at her thighs, his nails digging into pale flesh. “Don’t taunt me, my dear, else that scrap of a dress, expensive and beautiful though it is, will find itself ripped off and decorating the floor. It would be shame if you had to greet our guests in the nude.”

She gave a full throated laugh. “That would definitely send Mummy and Daddy into a fit of apoplexy!” And he chuckled with her. Her arms wrapped about him, the tips of her fingers playing with his neatly coiffed hair. “What else are you offering, aside from my freedom?”

“You’ll be given your own account with a very generous balance, of course.” That was fair. She couldn’t expect to be automatically added to all his assets. They weren’t in love after all. “Perhaps we can acquire an apartment in Manhattan. Maybe overlooking Central Park?” That’s just what she wanted when she moved back to town, but Mummy and Daddy had scoffed at the cost. The potential price tag didn’t seem to faze Mr. Baelish, however. _Curious_.

She craned her neck to the side. “Can you afford that? On a public servant’s salary?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “I was a successful businessman long before I was an elected official. It’s very likely that I’m worth more than even your esteemed parents these days.”

Sansa looked dubious of his claims. “I doubt that.”

Petyr just smiled on knowingly.

Then, something he’d said when he was debasing Willas plagued her. “What about kids?”

His lips pursed, hands flexing as they moved further up her thighs to drag her closer. Finally, he answered, “Negotiable. I’m in no hurry to have them, but there will come a time when it might be necessary. Though, if you’re dead set against carrying any yourself, I’m not opposed to adoption.”

“You talk as though you’re aiming higher than the governor’s office.”

“I might be.” His head ducked to tease a path of kisses from her ear to the base of her neck.

“Senator?” she squeaked under his barrage, and he hummed into her neck. “President?” Her head was spinning. 

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” he rasped before darting his tongue out to taste her.

Sansa gripped at his hair, wrenched him back, concerned that if he continued on, neither of them would be fit to be seen. “Do you really think you could go that far?”

The grin he held was wicked. “I’m a very persuasive man.” He leaned in to kiss her but was met with her purple tipped finger instead.

“You’ll smudge my lipstick,” she explained. Petyr retreated with a touch of chagrin, and she hopped down from her seat, straightening the skirt out from where he’d pushed it up with his adventurous hands. “Besides, we don’t have time. It sounds like all our guests have arrived.” And sure enough, Petyr’s postured perked up as his ears registered the telltale murmurs of the crowd outside.

“Our guests?” His hands found his pockets. “Does this mean I have my bride after all?”

Sansa smiled to herself, chiffon and silk swaying deliciously against her skin as she headed for the door. She peeked over her shoulder to see the cocky grin on his face, and discovered to her own surprise that she quite liked it on him. She called over her shoulder, “Like you said… You’re a very persuasive man.”


	4. Typhoid Mary

The man of the hour was all smiles as he watched the rich, the powerful, the beautiful mingle on Grafton’s perfectly manicured lawn. Other than Olenna Tyrell chewing off his ear for the past few days, this whole plan had gone rather swimmingly. The old woman had cause for grievance, of course. It was she that acted as benefactor on his first campaign, putting her good name on the line for a successful, if little known, businessman from the wrong side of river. It was an investment Petyr further encouraged by hiring on her grandson, Loras, as one of his policy advisors. The young man was far too idealistic, wanting to run roughshod over the established order, and Petyr shot down or amended his proposals more often that not, but he served one purpose very well — insurance. Insurance that Olenna wouldn’t go running off in a tantrum to throw her money and her name to some other candidate when, inevitably, Petyr would have to make a play against her. The fact that hapless Loras was one of Sansa Stark’s best friends was just an extraordinary bonus.

In truth, Petyr hadn’t planned to seek out Sansa for marriage; not seriously at any rate. The Starks were distinguished members of the opposition, and always presented their family as a unified front — beautiful and well-educated, charitable and loving. Absolutely, _sickeningly_ happy. But at any event where he found himself in their company over the years, Sansa had always drawn his eye; that red hair, those arresting blue eyes, and frankly, those amazing legs that he’d heard more than one man covet openly. At sixteen, there were already online countdown clocks to the day Sansa Stark would turn eighteen, whole galleries dedicated to upskirt photos claiming to be of her, and when news reached the governor’s mansion about the overarching interest in the Starks’ eldest daughter they refused to comment, but Petyr noted that Sansa made the majority of her public appearances thereafter in pant suits or long dresses. The situation was horridly crass, and Petyr openly condemned such treatment when the media reached out to him for comment as head of his party — as though they truly expected him to say anything else.

 _No, no. Sexualizing Stark’s teenage daughter is my favorite past time. I check all those sites daily just praying to catch a glimpse of her juicy pink lips, and cannot wait for the day when I can legally slide myself between those smooth, milky thighs and pound into oblivion. It’s a matter of free speech after all!_

Imbeciles.

But no. It was not until Loras spilled the beans regarding the family discord after one late, drunken night while burning the midnight oil that Petyr found himself devising the best way to win sweet Sansa to his side.

It was a risk, a gamble to propose to her so openly with little interaction or discussion beforehand, but Petyr had done his research. Or rather the private investigator he kept on retainer, Lothor Brune, had. What he found — that of a relationship with over-tight reins on a daughter just itching to break free — was enough to convince Petyr that she could be easily swayed. That, and her last thesis paper — which her professor was more than happy to provide for the right incentive — on the ethics of politics. Her arguments within matched so closely with his own beliefs, and so staunchly belittled the honor bound politics her father espoused, that were Petyr of a romantic nature he might have called her a soul mate. At the very least, he suspected that they would work well together.

A smoky voice cut through his private ruminations. “You look awfully pleased with yourself, Baelish.”

Petyr swallowed the champagne from the flute raised to his lips, casting a glance over the rim at his one-time drinking partner, now retired state senator. Even at sixty, the woman’s style could outstrip every other in attendance; sleek black Givenchy dress hugging her willowy frame, a string of delicate pearls wrapped double about her neck, and her solid white hair(an indulgence she perpetuated when the grey finally overtook her natural brown) pulled into a severe twist, and her makeup subtle, natural save for the terracotta tint adorning her mouth. She held an ageless quality that not even the fine lines about her eyes or the thinning of her lips could detract from. In ten years time, Petyr predicted that she would look exactly the same. “Barbrey! You came.” 

They shared a quick kiss-kiss to either cheek, and he watched as the older woman surveyed his bride-to-be in the distance. “Of course, I came. I never could never resist the urge to watch Ned brought down a peg or two.” Her tone was light and teasing, but her sharp gaze was malicious. “How in the world did you managed this little coup?” she crooned.

“No coup. No deception.” He preened at his sleeves, hoping the nonchalance of the action distracted from the genuine pleasure on his face. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.”

Aged brown eyes flickered to his face disbelieving. “She said yes? Just like that?”

Petyr raised his glass in salute, and tipped back a bit more of the liquid gold. If Barbrey expected him to admit to any trickery in the here and now, she would be sorely disappointed. His stare trailed back to Sansa where she was in the midst of what looked like a dull discussion with Grafton, Hunter, and a woman whose face was obscured. She put on a stunning performance this afternoon, a veritable social butterfly. He hadn’t missed the looks that passed between some of the more skeptical guests when he introduced Sansa, and announced her as his fiancée. Party politics was a blood sport after all. Rarely was it seen for a politician’s family — especially a career politician like Ned — to split loyalties, but Sansa had a knack for pinpointing just what to say to put people at ease. After today, she’d be the political darling, no longer the ingenue that her parents tried to keep in the dark, and more than that — _his wife_. An undeniable fact that caused no small amount of masculine pride to swell in his chest.

“You know,” Barbrey mused with a glass of wine in hand, “when I saw those pictures and heard the rumors, I couldn’t decide whether you had brass fucking balls for poaching Stark’s daughter, or if you were going through a midlife crisis.”

Hand over his heart, Petyr sardonically scoffed, “Bar, you wound me. To believe that I would be going through something as pedestrian as a midlife crisis.”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, but Petyr could just make out the beginnings of a smile in her cheeks. “You wouldn’t be the first public figure to do so. Still, I suppose it's not as bad a match as the Robert Baratheon fiasco fifteen years ago.” 

Ah, yes. Who could forget the nuclear fallout of Robert and Cersei’s divorce? The marriage of two such major political forces should have easily propelled the couple into the White House. And while sometimes those sorts of political marriages worked — as with Ned and Catelyn Stark — the Baratheon-Lannister union served as more of a cautionary tale. Both Robert and Cersei were of a… spirited temperament, if Petyr were to be kind. Neither of them willing to relent in their own desires for the betterment of their position. Vile accusations of attempted murder and infidelity, drunkenness and drug abuse flooded the news cycle for months. Tywin Lannister tried to have a gag order placed on the proceedings, but it was a wasted endeavor. The damage to his family’s reputation was irredeemable. Cersei was banished to the family compound in upstate New York with her children, and Robert’s career path tanked. 

Invoking the name was a subtle warning worth acknowledging, assuaging. Petyr finished off the rest of his champagne with flourish and placed the empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “No worries, my friend. Sansa may seem young to you, but she has quite the head for politics.”

“Oh? How old is she again? This doddering old brain of mine can’t recall,” she bit back with touch of animus.

Petyr’s brow arched sharply. Was his old colleague feeling touchy about her age? Amusement bubbled in his cheeks as he relished the thought that she might be a little jealous of his new confidante. “She’ll be twenty-five in a few months.”

“Hmmm.” Years working together in the capitol left Petyr able to read Barbrey’s every move, facial feature, and sound, and that was not a good one.

“What is it?” he asked, but before answering him, she passed him her wine, and began searching her reticule until she pulled out her gold embossed cigarette case. 

“That is going to be a problem.” Snapping it open, she pulled one of those horrid Virginia Slims she insisted on smoking, but at Petyr’s look of confusion she elaborated, “The fact that you need to look ahead in order to feel comfortable stating her age tells me all I need to know about how the press will handle it.” Chucking the case back into her purse, she sighed, exasperated. “Forgot my damn lighter.”

Producing his own from his pants pocket, he flicked it to life in front of her. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, dear, don’t play dumb.” Barbrey leaned into the flame, closing her eyes as she inhaled the nicotine deeply. “The age difference is going to be an issue. Especially if what I’ve heard out of the governor’s office is true.”

That got his attention, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. “What have you heard?”

She gave an unconcerned shrug. “It’s just an assumption on my part, but I happened be in the capitol yesterday, and at lunch I overheard one of Varys’s little birds complaining.”

“Ned’s campaign manager, Varys?”

“The very same,” she stated. “It seems Ned is fuming, and Varys is scrambling to come up with a way to spin this. I think they plan to insinuate that you’re taking advantage of a young, naive woman.”

A sneer twisted his face and an incredulous huff of laughter escaped him. “You have to be joking? They would have the voters believe she’s some innocent fallen into my villainous clutches like a damsel in distress. It’s the twenty-first century. Certainly that won’t play.”

“Maybe not with the younger voters, but they aren’t the ones that matter. It’s the forty-five and up demographic that you have to be wary of. And for them, it might just.” 

Fuck it all, she was right. For all that the country liked to pretend it was a progressive, forward thinking entity, we were all raised on fairy tales as children. Good guys versus bad guys; it clouded reason, and swept away people’s tolerance for the greyer shades in life and experience.

Petyr was about to ask what he should do, but stopped, mouth agape as he saw Barbrey’s normally passive demeanor turned to one of alarm. “Petyr, we have a problem.” She snuffed out her cigarette underfoot, and grabbed her drink back from him. “Typhoid Merry is here, and she’s talking to the future Mrs. Baelish.”

Typhoid Merry — so named due to the speed with which her syndicated, so-called “news” pieces spread. She had felled more than one rising politician and Petyr had no plans to be the next. _Fuuuuck_.

His head snapped to where he last saw Sansa. She was in conversation with the woman from before, but this time they were alone, and he was able to make out the rude interlopers features. His blood pressure shot up until it pounded like a Cuban drum in his ears. Petyr’s whole body propelled in their direction, his feet moving him through the crowd as fast as they could carry him, but it seemed everyone was just then demanding his attention. He begged pardon and made excuses and stepped around the throng as quickly as possible; all smiles as he tried to quell his own internal panic. Of course, Taena Merryweather would ambush a private party and approach Sansa while she had her guard down. Nightmare of nightmares. Finally, he managed to make it through the den, and caught Sansa’s eyes, sparkling with mirth. She must have read the urgency in his own, because the light in them dimmed as he approached.

“Darling,” he leaned in, placing a hand on her shoulder and a chaste kiss to her lips. Then, looking to her left with a smile that could cut and a look that shot daggers, Petyr addressed the uninvited gnat. “Taena.”

“Taena?” Sansa blinked, not fully cognizant of the giant insectoid who took pleasure in sucking away all joy and life at her side. “I thought you said your name was Mary?” 

Petyr’s arm traveled the length of Sansa’s back to pull her into his side securely, possessively. “No, my love. That name is just a fondly bestowed sobriquet from her many admirers.” Taena stood confident and unapologetic as he raked his eyes over her in obvious disdain. “I see you’ve forgotten your press credentials again. That’s a nasty habit.”

There was an audible gasp from Sansa, but she quickly recovered as she realized just how exposed they were in the crowd. She whispered through clenched teeth that a layman might interpret as a smile, her hand gripping the champagne flute until the knuckles were white. “You’re a reporter. You said you were part of Petyr’s public relations team!”

“No.” The woman didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, proudly flaunting that she crashed a private party to gobble up salacious gossip and hearsay. “What I said was that I was a media liaison that worked with him sometimes, but language can be very tricky.”

Petyr saw as the ivory skin of Sansa’s chest and neck turned a violent shade of red that spread all the way up to her ears. Oh god what had she been talking about with this pestilence of society. He gave her waist a comforting squeeze before raising a hand to signal for security, but no sooner had he done so than Barbrey, like a conquering general, appeared with two muscle bound sentinels in tow.

“Ah, good. You anticipated me.” Taena turned, her face sullen but resigned as she took in her escort. “As much of a joy as it is to see you again, Merry, I think this is where your good time ends.” Petyr’s voice was jovial, but held an undercurrent of ice. 

And Typhoid Merry quite contrary slithered just out of their reach to place a daring kiss to his cheek, with a whispered warning against his ear. “Don’t worry over little old me, Petyr. I got what I came for.” And her grin was downright vicious as she paced backwards into her waiting wardens’ arms. “Congratulations on your engagement!”

Petyr watched her go in a stoic silence, loath to give her the response she so craved. The bitch. The insane fucking bitch. As soon as she faded from view, he wiped the residue of her lipstick off his cheek with the heel of his hand and an annoyed growl.

“Petyr?” Sansa’s voice was so very quiet, eyes fearful.

Oh, Sansa, my sweet. What have we blundered into? She looked white as a sheet, and he tried to reassure her with a smile as he slipped her arm into the crook of his own. “Come, my dear. I think perhaps we should step out of the sun for a bit.”

Leading Sansa towards the house, he gave a quick nod of thanks to Barbrey as they passed — no time for niceties and introductions. It was imperative to know what was said as soon as possible. There were people in the foyer when they entered the house, a few curious eyes landing on the couple as they slipped in. He met their stares with his own, boldly daring them to gawk at their own peril, and one by one they dropped away like school children having displeased a most beloved teacher. He gestured to the corridor that led to the east wing, and when they were far enough that voices could not be heard, they ducked into a little used parlor.

Sansa, who had been vibrating with barely contained panic for the whole of the long walk, pushed away from him to pace, hands furiously waving in front of her face as she hyperventilated. “Oh god, Petyr. What did I just do?”

“Shhhhh… It’ll be okay.” He soothed, catching her up in his arms again. It was a lie. Petyr had no idea if they would be okay or not until he knew all, but he needed her calm and thinking clearly. He rubbed circles into the bare warm skin of her back and pressed a kiss to her temple, noting how her agitation seemed to calm somewhat under his gentle shows of affection. “Come. Sit.” He helped her to a small settee where her gelatin legs finally gave out beneath her, and took the seat beside her, his hands cradling her own. “Take a minute and breath. Then tell me _exactly_ what was said.”

Sansa gave a vigorous assent of her head before her lids fell shut, her breathing deepened. Petyr watched the rise and fall of her chest, traced the rounding of her berry pink lips at each exhale, and by degrees her color returned, the tension in her body eased. 

“Okay. I’m ready.” And he acknowledged her statement with a supportive peck to the palm he still held. “I had just stopped by the dessert table, when she came up and introduced herself as Mary. I had no idea who she was, you have to believe me,” her voice picked up in speed and pitch like an announcer at an auction, words slurring into one another as she rambled, “I thought that all the press was escorted away after the announcement and she had no badge like you said, and she was dressed no differently from anyone else at the party, and I would really like to know how a parasite like her can afford a fifteen hundred dollar pair of Jimmy Choos,” she complained, and Petyr had to laugh at the fact that out of all things Sansa would know what kind of shoes their detractor was wearing.

“Tangents, Sansa,” he chided, and chucked her on the chin good naturedly. 

He saw her finally crack a smile then, and she shook her head, “Sorry.”

Softly he coerced, not wanting to breaking the new lightness in the air. “Just tell me what was said.”

Sansa waffled before beginning, as if granting any concessions to the trickster might condemn her, but honesty prevailed. Somewhat sheepishly, she stared at their joined hands. “Well she was quite nice actually. Everyone else at the party was a touch stuffy at first. It took some time for them to speak comfortably with Ned Stark’s daughter — I think half of them thought I was some sort of spy,” she rolled her eyes derisively. “But she came up and was just so warm and inviting right from the start. I suppose I should have known something was wrong then,” she lamented with sadness. 

“Anyway, she said she had always admired my parents, and was curious what would get me to switch parties. I saw no reason to lie. I told her that my own political leanings had evolved. That I felt like Mummy and Daddy were too linear, too black and white in their approach. Nothing terrible, just the normal differences between parents and children.” Taking another deep breath in preparation, “Then, she asked me how you and I got involved.” Biting her lip, she looked up at him with a touch of trepidation, and Petyr knew right away that what followed would not please him. “We never really discussed how to answer that beforehand, and I figured having some honesty reflected in the answer wouldn’t be the worst thing. I told her that we’ve known each other practically forever, having met at father’s inaugural ball over ten years ago. To which she said, 'Oh so you’ve been in touch since you were a _teenager_?'” 

Oh fucking hell. That could easily be misconstrued. Taena would have people thinking he was grooming Sansa in darkened alcoves at the governor's mansion. Petyr began racking up a list of names in his head that he could potentially trot out to disabuse any allegations that he’d ever been inappropriate with Sansa while she was underage. That sort of charge could and had taken down campaigns before. And if what Barbrey said was true, and Varys was going to play up the innocent victim card, it would be tough to overcome. Thankfully, he had a few things going for him: a spotless history supporting women’s and children’s issues, no charges of sexual harassment on his record, and, most importantly, Sansa herself to debunk the claims.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Sansa asked him, studying his face. Her own carrying a mask of worry.

He cupped her cheek, let his thumb brush over the hollow beneath her shimmering eyes. “It’s not great, but it’s hearsay. Without someone to confirm and corroborate her story it’s just gossip and any paper worth its salt won’t run it. That’s not to say there aren’t a few less reputable outlets that wouldn’t run with it just to spite me.”

Sansa pouted adorably then, and he could just see a trace of moisture collecting at the corner of her eye. She really was upset by this, and that moved him more than he cared to admit. “I’m so sorry, Petyr. This is all my fault. I’ve been out of the political spotlight since I graduated, and I let my guard down.”

“No, my dear, no.” He pulled her into his arms, and heard as she sniffed against his chest. “It’s not your fault. She wasn’t even invited to this event as press or otherwise. Security fell apart somewhere along the line, and I’ll be having some words with Gerold over it.”

Snaking her arms about his neck, Sansa whined against him, “What are we going to do though?”

And like a small child, Petyr hoisted her up into his lap, giving her a tickle until she giggled, and the morose atmosphere around them dispelled. Smiling, he looked up into her face. “Well it’s early enough in the campaign season that it might get ignored, but we can’t rely on that, especially with me announcing my candidacy on Saturday.” He tucked away a strand of red hair and booped her nose. “What we can do, however, is bury it deep.”

An intrigued brow arched as Sansa cocked her head to the side. “How?”

“With our wedding, of course.” And Petyr wished he could capture the moment her eyes lit up. “I’ll have to talk with my people, but I think it’s our best course of action. We alert the media, invite a few of them to tag along as we tour venues and pick out floral arrangements, invitations, music, your dress,” he explained as if he were a teacher, and really he supposed he was in this respect. The Starks had never suffered a public scandal of this sort. “Besides, we’ll need to be married before your birthday comes around or else we won’t have time for a proper honeymoon until after the election.”

“When are you thinking?” Her fingers raked along the nape of his neck, and the tiniest frisson of arousal stirred between his legs.

He licked his lips, not missing as Sansa’s eyes darted down for a peek. “Well, it’s spring now, and I imagine it will take at least three months to decently plan the type of event we’d need. So perhaps in August? Early September?”

“It’s not a very fashionable time, is it?” The charming way her face scrunched up as she said it, so concerned with appearances, made him chuckle.

“No, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“July,” she stated with conviction. “The Saturday after Independence Day.”

Now it was his turn for questions. “That’s only two months away. We’re talking at least five hundred guests. Are you sure you don’t want the extra time?” 

“No. What I want," she said as she wiggled closer, enticing his erection to full mast, "is midsummer fireworks and a beach for our honeymoon.” 

Petyr had to hand it to her; his sweet girl knew what she wanted, and he’d damn anyone who dared deny her. “Then fireworks and beaches you shall have, my darling.”

She squealed, “Oh this is going to be so much fun! And you really believe this will work?” 

“I think that when New York sees you in a wedding gown and how inexplicably happy we are together, they won’t give Merry’s baseless accusations a backward glance,” he assured with a tight embrace. 

“Can we really be happy, do you think?” The childlike wonder in her tone, as though it had never really occurred to her that such an oblique idea could be a part of their life together tugged at something inside himself, and he found more than ever before that he wanted to make that her reality.

“I promise you, my sweetling, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are absolutely, incandescently happy.”

There were no protestations to his kiss this time, her lips parting willingly, and meeting him with equal fervor. Oh, this little vixen was going to be the death of him. Midlife crisis my ass. He’d be lucky if he made it to election day if this hard on didn't get addressed soon.


	5. Stain Me

The Springtime breeze whipped around Sansa, fluttering her skirts and breaching the lace beneath, leaving goosebumps prickled across her skin. Yet, it was the lonely perch atop her knee where Petyr’s fingers had flirted dangerously during their twenty minute sojourn that made her shiver, bereft now of that welcome warmth. His beach house off Noyac Bay was nothing like the eyesore that had hosted them this afternoon. It was far more reasonably sized for one; done up in a contemporary style with a seamless blend of metal, wood, and glass. Even lacking sunlight, Sansa could make out it’s design and see the care that went into its architecture. The sharp lines were softened through the use of textured shingle siding, but ultimately it was decidedly masculine, decidedly Petyr. 

As he escorted her from the secluded garage, over the paving stones that lined his drive, towards his home, she couldn’t deny the lip-biting anticipation that sang through her veins.

“Again,” Petyr said unlocking the entrance to his home, “I’m sorry for the mix up. I swore I instructed the driver to stick around for your return home.” He didn’t even attempt to hide that devious sparkle in his eye; the curve of his lips belying the truth as she watched his profile in the yellow porch light. What a sorry liar he is! Though the boyish bounce in his step hinted that he perhaps wanted her to know — a little boy excited after stealing a sweet from the candy counter. Under any other circumstances she’d call him out on his bluff, but after their steamy kisses in the parlour this afternoon, she was eager herself for a bit of privacy; their earlier dalliance leaving an unsated curiosity about the passionate man that will be her husband.

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said, breathing him in as she slipped through the narrow passage formed between his body and the now ajar steel door; damn if he didn’t smell better after a day of schmoozing the public. Tobacco and leather, musk and vanilla; though the vanilla notes may have come from her own perfume. She struggled not to blush, to keep her legs steady. The soft tap of her heels against hardwood echoed in the entryway until she was forced to stop; the scant light from outside having been snuffed out by the door’s close. Her heart jumped in that way that only comes with a total absence of sight; that instinctual fight or flight response. Her nerves were standing in attention, waiting for his next move. “Besides, I’m curious to see how the infamous bachelor, Petyr Baelish, lives.”

A sharp gasp rushed past her lips as his firm hands secured her about the waist in the deep pitch, his lips a purr against the top of her shoulder as measured steps led her deeper. “Infamous, am I?”

Succumbing to the heated press behind her, Sansa relinquished her freedom momentarily; this game of cat and mouse only just beginning. “Oh, yes. There’s been quite the speculation over the years within Mummy’s circle. They made bets to see who could catch your eye. Many frustrated drinks were had when they all failed.”

“None of them were you.” He lobbed his confession at her as though it were a ball to be volleyed, but an apt reply eluded her. She ardently wished that they weren’t ensconced in night so that she could see his face to read his intent, but by the time they rounded a corner and he flipped a nearby switch, the moment had passed. 

The room lit up, and Sansa was finally privy to his inner sanctum. They stood in a fully modernized kitchen with pendant lighting and tasteful wood countertops the color of honey. It was clean of ostentation save a small knife block and a few copper bottomed pans that lined the wall above the sink. It took a moment for her eyes to register the oddity a few yards beyond. It was a sunken living room though that wasn’t what puzzled her. A huge, white lounge big enough to seat three or four people sat dead center on travertine tiling with floor to ceiling windows on two sides. What would possess someone to place tile when there was such beautiful blonde hardwood elsewhere in the house? And what a strange use of space. There was barely three feet of clearance between lounge and windows.

Amusement lifted Petyr’s cheeks as he released her, watched her descend into the den for exploration. Asking him a direct question would certainly be faster, but Sansa loved figuring secrets out on her own. Unfortunately, this one was not straight forward. She traversed the path around sprawling centerpiece only to reverse her path. She was missing something, and Petyr’s tricksy smile told her he definitely had something up his sleeve. Suddenly, the wall of windows behind her rumbled, and she almost jumped out of her skin! The entire wall — windows and all — retracted, opening the room to the night air. 

“Oh! It’s an extension to the pool,” she marveled, poking her head out to peer around the backyard before returning to face him with a wide-eyed grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

“You like?” he mused.

“Like? I love it!” Her dress flared out as she took an excited spin in the now open space. “I can only imagine how nice it is in summer.” Oh, it will be so much nicer than constantly having to reapply sunscreen. She could already see herself taking a dip and drying off to relax in the summer breeze without fear of turning a horrid shade of lobster.

“It was definitely a strong selling point,” he chuckled. “How about some wine?” Reaching into a upper cabinet, he revealed a servicably sized wine cooler. “I have a cab sav, shiraz, malbec, lambrusco. Or I can delve into the cellar for a white if none of those appeal?”

Sansa draped herself over the back of one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Lambrusco will do.”

“A sweet wine lover then? I usually save that one for sangria,” he teased, but removed the bottle and popped it open all the same.

“At least I’m not demanding Moscato.”

Petyr’s face twisted. “Not in my cellar,” and Sansa laughed. So he was a wine snob. She could live with that. Two glasses were procured, filled, and happily clinked, when his phone buzzed and the delight on his face melted to that of something more serious when he checked the caller.

“Ignore it,” Sansa pouted. 

“Tempting,” he responded. “Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s Loras. I need to take this.” Backing slowly towards a wayward staircase he urged, “Go ahead and make yourself at home. This shouldn’t take long.” And she heard a dissonant _hello_ as he ascended to the upper levels.

 _Damn it, Loras!_ She hadn’t even the chance to kiss Petyr again before work intervened. Would their lives always be like this? Stolen moments between press conferences and crises. Hopefully not.

Left to her own devices, Sansa sipped on her wine, examining the room more in depth without Petyr’s prying eyes upon her. A touch screen panel was mounted on the wall near where they entered. She reasoned that it must control everything, and she sauntered over to peruse the selection. 

Aside from the temperature controls and security feeds (Which she was prevented from snooping in due to a lack of access code. Pah!), there were a long series of switches and dials. One button was clearly labeled for the receding wall. Another, which was set apart, was labeled music, and she gave it a slide until the soft notes of a piano flooded the room. The others on screen managed the lights. She tapped each one in idle exploration. The pool illuminated with a tap, followed by the garden lights lining the patio. She rather liked the way everything was lit up outside, and the way the sheer curtains billowed with the salty breeze coming off the bay. The lights inside were doused, letting the glow from outside bleed softly into the room. What a perfect backdrop.

The mood of the room was so altered with the adjustments she made. It set the pistons in her mind shifting, her wine-stained lip locked tight between white teeth as the idea coalesced.

Time to show her soon-to-be husband just where his attentions should be focused.

* * *

The rumble of light steps on the staircase resonated as Petyr descended. The darkened room went unnoticed, his eyes fixated on the glaringly bright screen of his phone as he emerged, “Sorry about that, sweetling, but it was good news for us.”

“Was it?” Sansa sing-songed from the lounge, and Petyr finally looked up, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the sharp absence of light. Sansa didn’t withhold the smile from her lips as she caught the predatory rake of his eyes over the sight that greeted him. She was rather proud of her ingenuity given the finite amount of time she had to come up with the idea. 

“It was,” he said nonchalantly, abandoning his phone on the nearest surface to place his hands in his pockets. “The Tyrells have found a new mark for Margaery, and it’s someone I can use to my benefit. _But_ perhaps now is not the time to discuss it.” His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, eyes heated as he observed her. “I see you made yourself comfortable.”

Lying prone in the middle of his expensive, white lounge, Sansa relaxed with a glass of wine in hand; her chin propped on a short stack of pillows, heeled feet crossed demurely at the ankle. Their ribbons tickled her calves. A product of the breeze and the not-so-innocent rocking of her legs. Her dress — the gorgeous concoction of silk and chiffon — vanished from her frame, relegated to a stool top decoration. Only the lewdest hint of ivory lace covering the smooth expanse of her pale curves.

“Well, it seemed prudent,” Sansa purred over the rim of her glass. “You did threaten to tear my lovely dress off earlier.”

He grinned a lascivious grin. “I would have if I’d known what was underneath.”

Sansa expected him to cross immediately over to her after that. Any other man would have; stolen the wine from her grasp, turn her over and inundate her with hasty kisses and impatient hands. Not Petyr. He walked leisurely around the island, procuring his glass of wine along with the bottle. Had she misunderstood his meaning when he feigned a “mistake” with the driver? The way he was eying her over the rim of his glass told her no. The dark glint lighting his gaze made her tremble, but he seemed unhurried. Slowly, he stepped down to where she sat. 

She was about to turn over, offer herself up like fine meal, when his voice husked, “Don’t move.”

Petyr circled her as though she were on display, and she supposed she was. Every caress of his eyes burned paths in her skin, and she struggled not to turn a deep shade of crimson. His demeanor was unscrupulous, dark. It was difficult to recall that she wanted this — his attention focused solely on her — but it was so unrelenting. The urge to nestle deeper into the mass of pillows and hide herself was strong, but she dared not move. Her whole body attuned to him, anticipating his touch.

After endless minutes, he spoke, “Do you enjoy art, Sansa?” Ever the hawk, circling, circling, circling.

“I’ve been to a museum or three in my day if that’s what you’re asking,” she cracked, and saw the gentle chuckle that reverberated his chest out of her periphery.

“I’ve always been drawn to sculpture. The masters, not that modern drivel people pass as art today. I toured through Europe — Italy, France. Were they alive today, they would be tripping over themselves to immortalize you.” Petyr ran a hand over his jaw as he considered her for a moment more. “There’s just one thing I would change.” 

He stepped before her, and she could see the proof of his attraction tenting his pants. When his hands slipped into her auburn strands to remove the pins that held it up, she inched forward until her nose grazed over his clothed erection pulling a growl from his throat. The sound was music to her ears; evidence that he wasn’t as wholly unaffected by her as he projected. He froze, fisting her hair roughly, pressing firmly into her cheek before pulling himself back. Pained, he breathed, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hmm?” 

The place between her legs pounded with frustration; this placid dance only fueling her need. The seductress was now the seduced. It was a humbling position in which to find herself, and she rocked her hips into the lounge, moaned when his hands continued their previous occupation, sifting through her hair, detangling and fanning it over her back. “Stunning,” he proclaimed, finally satisfied with the picture before him. His restraint was driving her mad.

Yet, the warmth of Petyr’s touch never fully disengaged. Slowly, carefully, he strode around her, the nail of his thumb dragging over her flesh, leaving a red welt along her skin. She tingled where the flesh reddened and puckered; a violent tremor racking her as his mark grew, trailed from shoulder to waist to hip, all the way down her the back of her leg, until it hit the satin looped around her ankles.

A teasing smile could be heard in his voice as he chided, “You know, it’s quite rude to wear your shoes on the furniture.”

“Technically, they’re not _on the furniture_ ,” she retorted with a raised brow.

“No,” he said, tugging one end of ribbon until the bow unravelled, “I suppose they aren’t. Still,” he groused good-naturedly. The delicate shoe was discarded in the floor and he began relieving her of the other. When they were both removed, he kissed the indentation of one foot then the other before parting her legs ever so slightly. His knee sank between them, and his hands were hot as they ran down her calves, smoothing over the raised gooseflesh that came from his attentions and the chilling wind from outside.

The tension around them was thick. Great syrupy gulpfuls of air filled her lungs with each slowly drawn breath as Petyr’s hands continued their ascent, his fingers massaging the backs of her thighs until he reached the ivory lace that hid untold treasures beneath. He mouthed one of the tiny dimples that decorated her lower back, making her quiver wantonly, making his grin devilish. “You like this — my attention — don’t you?”

A mewling _yes_ was uttered into the pillows as she arched into nothing. The wine glass in her hand clutched precariously until he bent over her to rescue it.

“Good,” he murmured, “because I enjoy it, too. Hearing all those little noises you make at the merest touch. You make such lovely sounds.” A light peck graced her shoulder. “Now tell me Sansa, have you ever been properly fucked?”

Her head lifted, thinking she misheard him. “What?”

“Fucked, my dear. I just want to ascertain your experience,” he casually explained as he placed her glass on a built-in side table where his own and the rest of the vintage rested.

“I-” She swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I guess.” God, what sort of kinky fuckery was he into that he wanted to know about her _experience_?

He chuckled to himself. “I’ll take that as a no. There’s no guessing. You either have or you haven’t.” He tucked her hair to the side, exposing her ear, his breath tickling as he asked, “Have you ever made love? Had someone worship you? Had them take their time to draw out every little whimper and moan until you thought you’d die if they stopped?” His tongue flicked over the lobe of her ear, his lips surrounding the tiny pearl she wore, sucking lightly until her ass pushed back into his hips and he released her with a gasp. The day’s stubble on his cheeks was rough where he buried his head into her neck, where he rubbed against her as his hips rolled.

“I-” Oh god. He was all around her. She couldn’t think straight.

His hand found her breast, pinched her peaked nipple as he prompted, “Yes or no?”

She writhed. “No.” _Never. It’s never felt like this._ Countless sexual encounters, some more tawdry than others, and none of them ever ignited her blood the way Petyr did. Not even the Adonis-like Lancel, her on-again-off-again fuck buddy through college.

“What a shame.” He tweaked the little pink bud in his fingers, swirled it with his thumb. “Well, what say we change that tonight, hmm?” The heat from his body disappeared, and a shock of cold air spiked the shivers in her as her bra was unclasped. “Now, I want you to stay very, very still. Can you do that for me?”

Barely a whisper, “Why?”

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.” At her inquisitive look, he assured, “Just trust me. I promise you’ll like it.” 

“Okay,” she said dubiously.

His grin was pure wickedness as he knocked away her perch of pillows, and redirected her to lie flat on the plush lounge. “Close your eyes.”

A long pause stretched her patience as Petyr shifted behind her. The heat of his body hovering above her winnowed the last of her reserves. The cloth of his shirt brushing over her naked back, the blend of his trousers teasing between her thighs. Sansa scrunched her eyes tight, pressed her lips flat, determined not to let him see how weak she was for him. 

A gasp flew sharply from her lips, as oh so gentle fingertips skirted over her spine, down, down, down. Then, a hiss as a cold sting fired up her nerves endings, soon followed by the warm wet lapping of hot muscle as Petyr soothed the shock away.

“Mmmm… Just as I’d hoped. A perfect compliment to the wine. Salty and sweet,” he teased.

Sansa shivered from the possessive grasp now at her hip. “You’ll ruin the lounge.”

“It’s my lounge to ruin,” he quickly countered, punctuating his statement with another drizzle of wine on her back. This time he let it run further down until it pooled at the base of her spine. At the point when she thought it would overflow to slip through her cheeks, the obscene sound of slurping rung in the air, and when he drank his fill, his licentious tongue made a delicious swipe, retracing the red stain weaved down pale flesh. 

_Fuck._ This was torture. Being forced to stillness, letting Petyr have full uninterrupted control over her, giving up her autonomy. But god, it was sinfully divine! She clutched the lounge between perfectly manicured fingers and moaned, her hips squirming against his strong thigh braced between her legs. Petyr smiled wickedly into her skin, his hand on her hip the only thing grounding her. She’d never had someone focus their attentions on her completely, and she began to understand as she moulded into the cushions beneath her just what he was alluding to with his questioning earlier. 

She’s never been fucked. She’s never made love. It explained her lackluster attitude about sex. Oh, she loved the idea of being with someone — the soft touches and teasing that led to the act — but it invariably ended with a sweaty sated partner, and Sansa wanting to wash the experience away. This was different. Petyr drew out the foreplay as though it _were the act_. His groans of appreciation as he licked her, fondled her, encouraged the breathy noises that all his ministrations caused. She prayed his same meticulous focus would be applied to their coupling. Having a considerate husband would make a loveless marriage so much easier to bear. Her skin was aflame by the time Petyr was done, her cunt pulsing and needy. 

“Mmmm… you did so well, my sweet. Not a drop spilt. Save for here.” Deft fingers seared along the upper edge of ivory lace — now stained burgundy from the wine — and moseyed between the cleft of her cheeks to sample the pungent arousal that soaked straight through her knickers. Sansa bit her lip as he idly stroked, inching closer and closer to that pinpoint of nerves, but never quite hitting it. She wanted to beg. For him to touch her, taste her, fuck her. God, she wasn’t sure. Any of it, all of it — it didn’t matter. “I think it’s time to remove these don’t you?”

She nodded into the cushion beneath her, and Petyr wrapped one arm about her waist, manipulating her onto her knees to slide the lace down and off. She was completely exposed to him, face down in on the lounge, and she felt her face flush in embarrassment. She knew he would see her eventually, that was the intention when she took off her dress and initiated this beggar’s attempt at seduction, but with the reality before her, butterflies were somersaulting in her tummy.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he breathed so quietly she wasn’t sure if she were meant to hear. Sansa peeked over her shoulder at him. Petyr’s face was awed, and his hands massaged up and down her thighs, clutched at the mounds of her ass to spread her wider, subverting the shadows to bare more of her in the soft light. “I need…” His face plunged towards her core, and there was a sharp intake of breath. “God, you smell heavenly.” It was the only warning she had before his tongue made a hard sweep over her cunt. 

“Oh god…” she cried, fists tightly clutching the edge of the lounge as he held her at his mercy.

He was meticulous; lapping between her folds, dipping in for a taste at the source, before attacking her clit with excruciating precision. She shrieked into the bright white upholstery. The skillful way his mouth plundered left her legs shaking, the lurid smacking of his lips sucking every bit of flesh they could reach, feeding that white hot ache. When he withdrew suddenly, she squealed in protest, until one forceful thrust of his fingers silenced her.

Over her shoulder, Petyr stroked over the bulge in his pants, his lips glistening from the scant light, his beard slick with her. His eyes were black and hungry, and she fought hard to pull herself together, to not keep mindlessly falling back onto the digits that plunged her very depths, striking that sweet cord that made her want to sing. Quaking she rose to her palms, then further, until his chest was resting against her back and she could feel his breath hot against her skin. Rutting against his erection, allowing his free hand to wrap around her torso and bring her taut against him, she threaded her nails through his tightly styled curls.

“Petyr...“ She dragged her lips over his jaw, coating them in herself.

The sound of his name shattered his carefully crafted control like fine glass. Both of his hands ceased their grasping attentions to cup the fullness of her breasts, his teeth sinking into the crook of her neck with a snarl. “Tell me what you want,” he panted hotly.

“You,” she said breathlessly, blue eyes hooded as she leaned into him.

“Lay down,” he commanded, and nudged her to lay supine. 

As she situated herself, he eagerly unbuttoned his shirt just enough to yank it over his head, revealing a smattering of black chest hair that trailed a thin line down his torso. Petyr paused, his eyes raking over her every curve and sinew now aglow in the faint light, and Sansa stretched, catlike, unimpeded by gossamer and silk. He crawled to lie next to her, his body half over her as he trailed his fingers softly down her neck, over her collarbone, and teasing down a breast until he reached the rosy tip.

“So beautiful,” he whispered reverently, head dipping to mouth one rounded peak, the point of his tongue enticing it to stiffness. “So sweet. You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”

“Since I turned eighteen?” _Or before?_

The unasked question loomed over them. A fool, Sansa was not. She understood the types of predation that came with growing up in the limelight, and even the political sphere has its share of participants with less savory predilections. And while Petyr’s gaze darkened, an answer was not forthcoming. Instead, he covered her lips with is own, his hand branding her thigh as he swung it high over his hip so his digits could continue to taunt over her slickened sex. 

It surprised her the way his calculated evasion sent a flutter of excitement through her belly. Or maybe it was just his kiss. She really did quite enjoy those so far. Of the few men she’d allowed the opportunity, most opened their mouths too wide; their tongues advancing on her like a throat seeking missile. Petyr was more cautious in his approach. His tongue didn't seek to dominate; it teased, it coaxed. His lips parted only enough to taste her and encourage her own gentle exploration. It was exceedingly tender save for the man’s intensity, the power behind his hands as they held her to him. There was need there unlike anything she’d experienced. 

Slender digits weaved through the smokey curls lining Petyr’s temples, spurring him on as the fingers of one hand wreaked havoc between her legs; the other snaked behind her nails digging at her waist. His heaving breaths were moist against her neck as wave after wave of languorous kisses trailed down to the valley of her breasts where sweat beaded and ran. He lapped it up greedily, groaning into her flesh, savoring as though it were the finest delicacy. 

The rasping of fabric grated in her ears. As he worked to bring her satisfaction, Petyr mindlessly rutted against her hip, the sensation of his cock muted beneath the silk-wool blend of his trousers. Sansa wanted that barrier gone, her hands slid over his chest to divest him, buckle clanking as anxious fingers pried it open. She squeaked as his fingers that hand been playing her like an instrument stopped her own, the wetness coating them quickly cooling over her skin.

“Are you sure?” he breathed, and Sansa thought she’d get whiplash from the vigorous way her head nodded before meeting his lips for a kiss of profound gratitude. So many men just barrelled forward, neglectful of her own wishes. That he gave her such consideration only made her more eager to step into this new life with him. Her nonverbal cue seemed enough to convince the man; his pants hastily kicked off and flung to the nearest corner. She released a contented sigh when she finally felt the full, unencumbered press of his body against her. “Should I grab a condom?”

Her stomach sank. “I- I’m not on any birth control right now.” Petyr went to rise but Sansa tugged at his wrist before his heat left her completely. “No condoms though. I want to feel all of you. Can you just…?” She bit her lip, silently pleading that he understands her meaning.

“Pull out?” He settled next to her again. “Are you sure? It’s risky even when it’s done right.” He trailed kisses over her brow, the tops over eyes, her nose. 

“I’m sure.” Her arms raised to lock around his neck, eyes widening a fraction as she cooed, “Please.”

A smug smile creased his face as his eyes raked hungrily over her. “Well, since you asked so _nicely_ …” 

His lips captured her own, swallowing her whines, as his hands smoothed over her hip to cradle the firm curve of her ass. He gave it a salacious squeeze before pulling her atop him. 

“You took horse riding lessons, yes?” Oh, what a wicked thing to say, but his naughty words drenched Sansa’s cunt. 

She played along. “I did.” Whispering seductively against his lips, “Are you in need of instruction, _Mr. Baelish_?” She wielded his name like a weapon, a taunt, and Petyr shuddered beneath her.

“Show me.”

A chaste kiss to his lips, and Sansa rose above him. She immediately felt the chill in the air, missed the rough scratch of his chest against her nipples. Petyr was heavy and hard beneath her, but he was in no hurry, content to let her dictate their pace. 

“The most important thing about riding,” she declares softly, rocking against his hardened length, “is to listen to the beast’s needs. Go too hard,” she beared down on him, eliciting a curse, “and he’ll shy away. Too soft,” she lifted free, and Petyr’s hips bucked, “and he’ll try to take control. The trick,” she murmured, letting her hands roam his chest, “is to find a rhythm. A tempo that you both can abide.” And she sank down onto him with those final spoken words, her breath knocked from her lungs on a moan as her body accommodated him. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, barely audible above the thrum of her heart. 

Sansa hadn’t gotten a good impression of his size in the darkness, but he was much thicker, deeper than she thought he would be for a man no taller than herself. The fullness stretched her to the edge of pain; pain that quickly abated when they began to move; slow, shallow rolls that gradually picked up speed until their bodies were slamming together. Petyr’s nails dug harder into her flank with each thrust she met.

“You were so right.” He cursed under his breath. “You feel incredible. So hot and slick and goddamn you’re so tight.” He winced with his next thrust, looking almost in pain. “Fuck, I want to come.”

His declaration left Sansa oddly flattered, but every smooth rake of his cock brought that sweet abyss ever closer. “Not yet,” she pleaded. “Just a little longer. You feel so fucking good, Petyr. Please don’t stop.”

Flipping them over, Petyr ravaged her mouth, hooking her legs in the crook of his elbow so his hips pistoned deeper. He was driving her mad. “You like this? My cock deep inside you.”

“Yes,” she moaned. He snapped his hips a little harder, and she cried out. “Again.” And he complied with enthusiasm, his thumb finding its way between her legs, as his teeth bit into the sensitive bud of her nipple. 

It was that touch of pain that finally broke her. Like a tidal wave meeting the shore, Sansa’s orgasm crashed over her. Waves and waves cresting and receding as she pulsed around Petyr, sucking him deeper and harder. He swore incomprehensible blasphemies as he reluctantly pulled free to release long white ropes of cum over her stomach. He collapsed upon her, soiling himself in the process and caring not a lick; the exhaustion of an excellent fuck superseding any worries for cleanliness. Even Sansa — gritty from drying sweat, and the combination of their fluids — was far too sated to mind the mess they’d made of each other. 

Once their breaths had been caught again, Petyr peppered soft kisses along her jaw, before sliding to lie at her side, and pulling her to lay entwined with him. He grabbed the bottle of wine from the table, taking a great swig to quench his growing thirst.

Sansa was replete in a way that she hadn’t been in so very long. As she listened to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, something he’d said that afternoon echoed in her head.. “Before, when you said this could be a happy marriage… Do you mean for it to be a real marriage?”

The slosh of the wine could be heard as he rested the bottle at his side. There was a pregnant pause as he considered her question. “Define real marriage.”

“Well, I mean,” she reached for the bottle, “I know what’s expected of a politician’s wife. I’m to smile, and look pretty, and parrot your stances. I guess I just want to know what you expect as far as… fidelity. I’ve seen what happens to trust when it’s broken and I guess I just want to know where we stand before we continue.” The wine burned deliciously down her throat. It was as much for courage as it was to replenish. She knew what she wanted to hear, but if he wanted something different… Well, if that was the case, at least he was being honest. There are worse basises for a marriage. 

“Fidelity.” Petyr mulled the word over in his mouth.

“I just don’t want to turn into my m-,” Sansa bit her tongue before it ran away, quickly recovering, “My friends who’ve had their trust betrayed.” No one knew about her father’s indiscretion, and as infuriating as Ned fucking Stark could be, she still cared about him. Spilling such a tawdry detail about a family oriented candidate might destroy his career. Even if he is Petyr’s rival, she couldn’t do that to him.

Tipping up her chin, Petyr planted a kiss atop her auburn locks. “I’m many things, my sweet. An adulterer isn’t one of them. And Sansa,” he brushed a thumb along her cheek, and her heart swelled with his next words, “you are capable of being so much more than just a _politician’s wife_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait on this chapter. I swear the cosmos were conspiring to keep me from getting anything done the past few days. Regardless, it will probably be a bit before I update this fic. I want to focus my efforts on finishing up a shorter fic that's been sitting idle for awhile. At least I'm pausing it on a high note. ;)


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